A Responsibility for the Past: Integrating Conservation and Archaeology

By Brian Fagan

The devastation along the Nile a century ago was shocking. "It
is sickening the rate at which everything is being destroyed, and
the little regard paid to preservation," lamented Egyptologist
Flinders Petrie in 1904 in Aims and Methods in Archaeology.
Despite vastly improved excavation methods, sophisticated remote
sensing techniques, and a battery of scientific approaches, the
Nile destruction of Petrie's time is now global. The nonrenewable
record of the human past is evaporating before our eyes in every
corner of the world at a dizzying pace. The culprits are easily
identified—unprecedented population growth, massive industrialization,
urban expansion, strip mining, and deep plowing. Added to this is
the damage wrought by looters and professional grave robbers feeding
the insatiable international antiquities market. Yet much of the
professional archaeological community still pays little more than
lip service to conservation.

Petrie's conservation strategy was straightforward: excavation
and yet more excavation, with careful attention to the smallest
object, and, above all, prompt and full publication. Not that Petrie
was a paragon of archaeological virtue. By today's standards,
his excavation methods were, at best, rough. He recovered many objects
by paying his workers for them, lest precious finds ended up in
a dealer's hands.

Portrait of William Matthew
Flinders Petrie. A pioneer in the field of Egyptian archaeology
who decried the lack of attention paid to preservation, Petrie's
excavation techniques—which emphasized recording the
physical dispersal of objects in a site—were unique for
his time. Photo: Courtesy Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology,
University College London.

In Petrie's day, antiquities legislation, such as there was,
was laxly enforced. Today, virtually every nation has antiquities
laws on the books, ranging from measures that protect all archaeological
sites and artifacts to others that extend protection only to sites
on public land. On paper there is a patchwork of legal protection
for many of the world's sites. But enforcing these laws is
another matter. Effective policing of sites is expensive and, for
poorer countries, an investment with little perceptible return,
unless there are economic benefits from mass tourism.

To their credit, many archaeologists have been proactive in fostering
protective legislation and in educating the public about the importance
of archaeology. Public archaeology—which seeks to inform the
public about cultural heritage and investigation of the past—is
a growth industry. As numerous observers have pointed out, an aware
public and an archaeology engaged in society are key to preserving
the archaeological record. Unfortunately, these all-important conservation
activities do not rank high in the archaeological pantheon of valued
activities, despite the passionate engagement of many eminent and
influential archaeologists.

Conserving the Resource

Mention the word conservation to most archaeologists and
they will regale you with their minor triumphs in the field—such
as lifting a delicate infant burial or piecing together a clay pot.
In archaeological circles, conservation means conservation of artifacts
or of buildings, rock, art, or other tangible remains. This narrow
definition stems from the often-specialized nature of conservation
work and the complex science that is sometimes involved. Even today,
most archaeologists are startlingly unaware that archaeology and
conservation are closely intertwined. They tend to categorize archaeology
into artificial subdivisions: purely academic research, salvaging
and protecting the archaeological record, and conservation—the
latter being an entirely different activity.

The stereotype of the conservator in archaeology is of someone
who mends pots, stabilizes waterlogged artifacts, or achieves miracles
of restoration. In fact, conservation encompasses a much broader
field of endeavor than just the care of objects. Conservation professionals
include individuals with backgrounds in fields ranging from geology
and chemistry to architecture and engineering. These professionals
can and should play an integral role in the preservation of archaeological
sites. But for that to happen, archaeologists need a new perspective
on archaeological conservation, one in which conservation is the
top priority whenever fieldwork is planned.

In 1973 the respected southwestern archaeologist William Lipe wrote
a now-classic paper in The Kiva entitled "A Conservation
Model for American Archaeology." The article has become required
reading for anyone concerned with archaeological conservation. Lipe
pointed out that "we are now beginning to realize that all
sites are rather immediately threatened, if one takes a time frame
of more than a few years." He also distinguished between emergency
and "leisurely" salvage, the latter being investigations
at sites "when we do not yet know the date at which the site
may be lost." Leisurely salvage was the purview of academic
archaeologists but, he warned, "if our field is to last for
more than a few decades, we need to shift to a resource conservation
model as primary." Obviously, archaeologists have to excavate
enough to research basic problems and to keep the field intellectually
healthy, but their primary responsibility should be to ensure that
the finite resource base of archaeological sites lasts as long as
possible.

An archaeological excavation
at the Ballona wetlands in the Playa Vista section of Los
Angeles, California. Increasingly, archaeology is being conducted
at sites such as this that confront imminent development.
The Ballona wetlands, once home to a number of prehistoric
peoples, today lie amid a large area of current and proposed
residential and commercial development. Since 1989, a program
of environmental reconstruction and archaeological investigations
has been conducted at the site—much of it performed in
conjunction with this development. Photo: Courtesy Statistical
Research Inc.

The Lipe paper appeared in the early days of concern about the
destruction of sites, and grew out of his experiences with a field
that had previously been called salvage archaeology and that was
becoming known as cultural resource management (CRM). The new term
suggested managing the archaeological record for future generations—a
far broader mandate than just the rescue of sites and artifacts
from the blade of a bulldozer. This management includes not only
survey, excavation, and analysis but also recommendations for long-term
management of the resource. CRM was a new type of archaeology, created
not by academic questions but by a need to satisfy legal mandates
for the management of sites. It has mushroomed since the 1970s and
is now the dominant form of field and laboratory archaeology in
North America. Under various guises, it dominates archaeology in
many other parts of the world as well, among them Australia, Europe,
and Japan.

If trends continue, archaeology—instead of being a purely
academic discipline—will become almost entirely a profession
focused on managing the past. Most employment opportunities are
now in private companies working under tight deadlines and strict
legal requirements. CRM projects have serious responsibilities for
the past, often involving decisions as to which sites are to be
excavated, which are to be destroyed, and which are to be saved
in their entirety. Often, budgetary issues intervene that weigh
archaeological sites against multimillion-dollar construction projects.

The long-term archaeological work in the Ballona wetlands—site
of the massive Playa Vista development project in west Los Angeles—is
an all-too-rare example of archaeology winning. Another instance
is a historic Chumash village named Xonxon'ata in central California;
there, a road was rerouted, limited excavations were carried out,
and precious information on an important community was saved for
posterity. Xonxon'ata is an example where legal requirements
helped enable a successful preservation effort. Public opinion,
when mobilized, is also a powerful voice for archaeology. The saving
of the Elizabethan Rose Theatre under a high-rise office building
on London's South Bank resulted from public outcry rather than
from legislation.

In many ways, this aspect of CRM is a highly sophisticated extension
of the Flinders Petrie philosophy: dig it up before someone else
destroys it. It is an attempt to salvage as much information as
possible with the time, money, and methods available. In some respects,
it represents the successful implementation of part of Lipe's
conservation model.

But there are downsides. An explosion of archaeological data has
emerged from these many projects, most of it published in what is
called "gray literature"—reports of limited circulation
or in cyberspace, which, despite efforts to the contrary, are effectively
inaccessible to most archaeologists. To their credit, many CRM archaeologists
have made determined efforts to publish their work in academic settings
and to produce books or monographs; many academic archaeologists
have also completed valuable research as part of a CRM project.
But while the sites may have been investigated and compliance reports
written, the basic archaeological data from them remains unvetted.

CRM has brought many benefits to archaeology, especially in its
bold use of remote sensing and other nonintrusive field methods.
Unfortunately, much CRM activity, especially in the areas of legal
compliance and project management, lies outside the conventional
purview of academic archaeology. A growing chasm has opened between
many CRM archaeologists and their academic colleagues, who are concerned
not with compliance and mitigation but with the acquisition of original
knowledge. This chasm results from the outdated values of archaeology
and from serious lacunae in archaeological training. If conservation
was a central value of all archaeological training and practice,
this chasm would be substantially narrowed.

A May 1989 overhead view of the excavated
remains of the Rose Theatre in London, and a photograph taken
the following month of a banner supporting their preservation,
hung on the fence surrounding the excavation. The late-16th-century
Elizabethan theater, unearthed after an office block was demolished
for redevelopment, was one of the earliest and most successful
theaters of its type. The ultimate protection of the theater's
remains within the new construction is an instance of public
outcry ultimately leading to the preservation of an archaeological
site. Photos: Andy Fulgoni/Museum of London and Terry Smith/
Timepix.

A Conservation Ethic

In his 1973 article, Lipe pointed out that all archaeological excavation,
whether CRM-based or not, erodes the database; thus, careful research
designs, which incorporate conservation as a basic strategy, are
essential. All archaeologists are involved with preservation of
the resource, either in the long- or short-term; this means that
a conservation ethic must be integral to all archaeological research.

The problem is even more acute now than when Lipe wrote his paper.
Today there are hundreds, if not thousands, of researchers who are
mining sites to answer purely academic—and often very insignificant—questions.
This ever-expanding activity (admittedly sometimes carried out as
part of a CRM project) is as devastating to the future of archaeology
as is industrial activity. Every summer dozens of fieldworkers excavate
yet more sites, with little concern for the most pressing problem
of all—will there be sites for their grandchildren to investigate?
While no one advocates a complete moratorium on excavation, it must
be the strategy of last resort, and it should never be total, unless
a site is about to vanish forever.

In the academy, archaeology is a science of discovery: survey,
excavation, laboratory work, and peer-reviewed publication. Beneath
these are—in descending order of perceived desirability—CRM
activities, teaching, curating, public archaeology, and administrative
roles. Conservation does not figure in the hierarchy at all, except
as a generally accepted and ill-defined basic ethic, which is taught
in virtually no graduate programs. While both the Archaeological
Institute of America and the Society for American Archaeology have
developed forthright ethical statements and policies to which their
members are expected to adhere, few graduate seminars dwell on ethics
in any depth.

Pueblo Bonito at Chaco Canyon
National Historical Park in New Mexico. Because of the way
that the first excavations of rooms at Pueblo Bonito were
carried out a century ago, many of the questions that we have
regarding the site now cannot be answered. During the 1990s,
the GCI collaborated with the U.S. National Park Service to
investigate, develop, and field-test, on a limited scale,
several protective strategies for preserving the standing
architectural remains at the site. Photo: Guillermo Aldana.

Most archaeologists at research universities are on a treadmill
of survey and excavation, publication, then more fieldwork and yet
more publication. Much of this activity is driven by grants from
private or public sources that, like university promotion committees,
are most interested in new discoveries and their rapid publication.
Almost no agencies that support archaeological research call for
a conservation plan in their guidelines for proposal. Nor do they
insist on full publication before considering a further application
for new fieldwork. This model of quick paper publication is appropriate
for a fast-moving discipline like theoretical physics or climatology,
but not for archaeological publication where—as the great excavator
Sir Mortimer Wheeler reminded us years ago—the primary responsibility
is to record one's findings for posterity. Regrettably, the
publish-or-perish system makes little allowance for the time it
takes to complete a final report, nor are funds for such work readily
available.

We archaeologists are also to blame. We would rather excavate and
write stimulating provisional reports than undertake the laborious,
time-consuming work of a final report. Even with all the danger
signs around us, we often ignore a fundamental reality of archaeology:
an unpublished site is destroyed as completely as one demolished
by a bulldozer. The record can never be replaced.

Like all sciences, archaeology has become increasingly specialized,
with an explosion in master's and doctoral programs. For years,
only a handful of students entered such programs. Today hundreds
of people enter such programs each year, all of them working under
specialist researchers who act as their mentors. Only a few graduate
programs, most of them recent, are training people for a world in
which archaeology is now a profession as much as it is an academic
discipline. We are long overdue for a massive reorientation of graduate
training and serious population control in the number of newly minted
academic specialists, many of whom end up in the CRM world and hate
it. These are the last people who should be salvaging the past.

At no point in the careers of most archaeology graduate students
do they receive comprehensive training in conservation. Most Ph.D.
candidates have never heard of Lipe's groundbreaking paper,
let alone have read it. When questioned about this lacuna, many
hard-pressed faculty say that they do not have time to include conservation
in the curriculum. To which the only response must be that they
need to reorder their priorities, for the future of archaeology
and for the benefit of their students' careers. It is also
a matter of basic professional ethics.

Integrating Conservation and Archaeology

How, then, do we make conservation central to archaeological activity?
We need major shifts in research priorities, drastic reductions
in the number of doctorates in purely academic subjects, and a growth
in meaningful graduate programs that meld archaeology and conservation
into a seamless whole. We need to start a long-term debate about
curriculum within both archaeological and conservation circles.
Archaeology does not need more specialized fieldwork mindlessly
culling a diminishing inventory of undisturbed sites. In fact, the
basic challenges archaeology faces in the future are far more interesting
and exciting.

Workers repairing the roof of the Mausoleum
of Ibn Zayd at the Silk Road site of Merv in Turkmenistan,
in September 2002. Archaeologists, conservators, and park
managers are working closely together to provide an integrated
approach to preserving this World Heritage Site. Here the
mausoleum's early-20th-century concrete roof is replaced
with a traditional earth-en roof, which requires low maintenance
and provides an effective weatherproof surface that allows
the structure to breathe. Photos: Tim Williams, Institute
of Archaeology, University College London.

These challenges are best addressed by integrating conservation
into the very fabric of archaeological research, as part of the
basic design of any project. We should never forget that even the
most careful excavation destroys the archaeological record. It is
all very well to develop a research proposal for the excavation
of an early farming village in Syria or an Andean ceremonial center
that promises fresh insights into the origins of agriculture. But
in an era when the archaeological record is under threat everywhere,
the first concern of any research project should be the maintenance
of the site and the stakes of all those concerned with its conservation—
be they archaeologists, local landowners, tourist officials, or
indigenous peoples.

Some may question this priority, but to challenge it they must
answer a simple question: what guarantee do we have that future
generations of archaeologists will be able to build upon your field
research? For example, we can never hope to check the validity of
Leonard Woolley's reconstructions of the royal burials at Ur;
his records are too incomplete. Nor can we answer many questions
about the history and uses of Pueblo Bonito in Chaco Canyon—most
of the rooms were emptied haphazardly in the early days of gung-ho
archaeology. If we are to be responsible stewards of the past, we
must make all research subordinate, at least in part, to preservation
and conservation. At present, our protective infrastructure and
professional training are woefully inadequate to the task.

How can we better integrate conservation into archaeological practice?

First, intensify the present cautious interactions between archaeologists
and the conservation community with the objective of fostering
specific outcomes. Such outcomes should include a massive revamping
of basic archaeological training, which would make conservation
strategies central to research. Introduce archaeologists to such
issues as stewardship and stakeholders, to archaeological tourism
and the economics of heritage—as part of their basic academic
training.

Second, foster intensive research into—and development
of—nonintrusive archaeological methods to minimize excavation
in the future. Important progress has been made in this area but
much more needs to be done.

Third, require that all doctoral dissertation proposals make
conservation the centerpiece of the proposed research. As a corollary,
encourage grant-giving agencies, whether government or private,
to insist on conservation plans as the first priority in all funding
proposals.

Fourth, require full publication of all fieldwork before future
excavation and surveys are funded. The term publication would
also include specific actions to preserve both the field records
and the finds from the excavations.

Fifth, drastically reduce admissions to academic doctoral programs,
but foster and support graduate curricula that make conservation
the highest priority.

A project team member documenting
the west face of the Castillo at the Maya site of Xunantunich
in Belize. In the early 1990s, the GCI worked with archaeologists
from UCLA and the Department of Archaeology in Belize on a
collaborative project at Xunantunich to address problems of
conserving archaeological sites in humid tropical zones. The
site was chosen in part because it offered an opportunity
to integrate conservation with an ongoing excavation. Photo:
Guillermo Aldana.

Last, decouple archaeology from the publish-or-perish culture,
and reward conservation projects as equal partners. A strong case
could be made for a series of highly prestigious prizes or awards
that give prominence and prestige to archaeological conservation.

No one suggests that basic research should be abandoned or is unimportant.
But we need to look far beyond the immediate gratification of a
new discovery or of a peer-reviewed paper published in the pages
of Science. At present, we are not even debating the ways
in which we must integrate a conservation ethic into the core of
archaeological research. The sooner we begin, the better.

As the current managers of the nonrenewable resource, we archaeologists
bear a heavy ethical responsibility to conserve the past for the
future, while maintaining a steady but carefully considered flow
of basic research, which gives the discipline its vitality. At present,
conservation stands at the margins of the archaeological world.
Fortunately, notable examples of basic research and conservation
working hand in hand are not uncommon. For instance, excavations
at the Maya center of Xunantunich in Belize during the 1990s involved
not only basic research but also the conservation of the site during
the excavation process. Also in the 1990s, African specialist David
Phillipson included limited conservation work in his investigations
of the Axumite Empire's capital in highland Ethiopia, famous
for its spectacular royal stelae. But such instances are the exception
rather than the rule. As William Lipe said some years ago in these
pages, "Archaeologists must be conservative in their own uses
of the archaeological record, so that future research can build
on current work" (see Conservation,
vol. 15, no. 1).

We have moved a long way toward implementing parts of Lipe's
visionary model, but we still have a long way to go. Even faced
with crisis, a great deal of archaeology still proceeds with obscure
theoretical debate and with academic specialization that satisfies
the publish-or-perish cosmos. Until archaeological activity is grounded
firmly in a conservation ethic, archaeology is doomed to long-term
extinction.

Brian Fagan is a professor of anthropology at the University
of California, Santa Barbara. He spent his early career working
in central Africa in museums and monuments administration. He is
the author of many books on archaeology for a general audience.